


Infested with Terror and Eaten by Rot

by Leitis



Category: Fallen London | Echo Bazaar
Genre: Betrayal, Gen, Horror, Seeking Mr Eaten's Name, obscurity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-07
Updated: 2016-07-07
Packaged: 2018-07-22 04:20:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7419529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leitis/pseuds/Leitis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You are so lucky, my dear,” your not-mother, whose name you can never quite recall, says, patting you on the shoulder with her gnarled, blackened fingers. “So lucky. You could have ended in the well, you know."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Infested with Terror and Eaten by Rot

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't played a lot of SMEN content myself, but I got inspired by discussions and the echoed bits in other people's journals. This is vague enough that here shouldn't be any obvious inaccuracies, I think, but if there are, please let me know. Unbetaed. Comments and concrit very much welcome.  
> Title is from a poem by N.Gumilev, translated by B.Rhaynn.
> 
> EDIT: okay, so I know now that there is, in fact, at least one pretty major inaccuracy here. I decided not to correct it though - I kind of like this text the way it is now, and anyway, this (former) Seeker is clearly insane, you cannot possibly expect her to get all those pesky insignificant details right. :P

“You are so lucky, my dear,” your not-mother, whose name you can never quite recall, says, patting you on the shoulder with her gnarled, blackened fingers. “So lucky. You could have ended in the well, you know, if not for Geneviève. Poor, poor Geneviève. Not as lucky as you. Do you remember her?”

You remember Geneviève, yes. The hulking monstrosity of a goat is rather difficult to forget, even though it was a long, long time since you saw her last – back when your not-mother’s household was always busy, always cheerful, filled with chatter of her numerous friends, acquaintances, companions and pets.

Why are those distant days easier to remember than your not-mother’s _name_?

Come to think about it, her face is somehow… unmemorable, too, even when you are staring right in it.

“What a terrible end she suffered, my poor darling. Not as terrible as some of the others, though.” Your not-mother makes a sound that reminds you of a man you saw a few days ago on Mrs Plenty’s Carnival. (That one who foolishly tried to swallow a whole handful of Rubbery Lumps at once. You are fairly certain he choked to death.) In this case, you suspect the sound is meant to be a chuckle. “Can you imagine how furious he was, when I turned back at the very edge, the very last impossible moment? How he screamed inside my head, he, who is no one, betrayed by me, whom he thought less than that? Oh, what a delight it was, to quit this way. What a prank. The very last glorious betrayal. As if I ever intended to actually destroy myself! Hah!”

You are not certain what she means. Your not-mother does not make sense often these days, after she returned out of who-knows-where, homeless, penniless, despised and shunned by her former friends. Whatever she got up to during her absence, it definitely qualifies as self-destruction in your eyes, but you’re not going to argue. Frankly, all you want right now is to get away from your not-mother, her strange, clammy skin, and her nonsensical speeches. That noble urge you felt an hour before to pay a visit and see how she’s doing seems to have dissipated utterly.

“So very, very lucky,” she hisses, obviously deranged, stepping even closer to you, then raising one hand to turn her head a bit. You have noticed she always does it manually, now. You don’t really want to know what her thick scarf hides.

“I, um. I should really go now,” you state firmly, and take a step back, evading her grip.

“Light a candle for your poor mother, darling!” She calls as you retreat, not making another attempt to grab you.

Every step you take away from the tiny hiding-hole in Spite your not-mother currently resides in makes you feel lighter.

That didn’t go too bad, honestly, you reason with yourself as you stride through the streets. She even seems to be doing a bit better – she hadn’t tried to gift you with a single half-eaten rat carcass while you were there. Perhaps you can visit again, say, next week.

Or, better make it next month – you wouldn’t want to interfere with your not-mother’s recovery process, after all.


End file.
